


As Long as Your Army Keeps Perfectly Still

by Mount_Seleya



Series: The Book of the Mother [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drinking during Pregnancy, F/M, Forced Marriage, Not Beta Read, POV Cersei Lannister, Physical Abuse, Post-Season Six, Referenced Character Deaths, Showverse, referenced rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: Cersei Lannister prepares for the grim business of trading one consort for another.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a result of loose threads that came up while working on _[Take What the Water Gave Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10554154/chapters/23312656)_ (namely what the fates of Euron Greyjoy, Ellaria Sand, and the Sand Snakes would be if Cersei took Jon as her husband).
> 
> Title from the song "Horses" by Tori Amos.

"Look me in the eye, Lannister."

Cersei kept her back turned to her husband. The breeze blowing through the window kissed cold against her cheeks. She lifted her glass of wine to her lips, let a sizeable gulp wash down into her belly in a warm, pleasant rush.

Black kraken sails clotted the harbour below. She needed Euron Greyjoy's fleet. Needed what allies she could get. Enemies surrounded her on all sides. North and south. East and west. The noose tightened day by day.

Even Jaime had turned from her. Fled to Riverrun to free Arya Stark with his armoured whore. She'd uncrowned a king and brought his people to heel with the girl's life in her grasp, but what had that gotten her, in the end, save a bastard's get in her belly?

"I am your husband. You carry _my children_. Look me in the eye if you would sentence me to death."

At that, Cersei wheeled to face Jon Snow, glass clutched firmly in her ringed fingers. The young man made a fine, fetching sight, as he always did, black curls spilling onto the shoulders of his red silk doublet and dark eyes blazing. His fury was as sweet as summerwine. Sweeter, even, than the anguished noises he made in her bed.

There was a purity in his unconquerable spirit. An honesty in the caged wolf's struggle. When he was gone, there would be no one fool enough in the Red Keep to challenge her, no one with the temerity to speak his true mind to her.

"Tell me, Snow," Cersei drawled, lips slashing into a smile, "did your father grant condemned men his eye?"

"Aye, he did," answered Jon.

"And did doing so move him to spare those men his sword?"

"No," Jon replied simply, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a sharp breath.

Cersei raised her glass. Took a prim sip. "Then you know your head shall sit upon a spike just as his did."

"I have known death, Lannister. I do not fear it. I don't imagine you do either. We both fear something far worse." Snow's eyes fell pointedly to the curve of her abdomen where it rose between the halves of her heavy black robe. "You think an Ironborn will bend the knee? That he'll spare the twins? He'll kill them as surely as he'll kill you!"

She'd told him Qyburn suspected twins a fortnight ago, in that still, grey hour before dawn when she abided his touch. Joffrey's dead eyes had been fresh in her mind's eye, and Jon's hand had felt so, so warm through her nightdress. And her children – _their_ children – had seemed to dance within her womb at the nearness of his fingers.

"I know what Greyjoy is," Cersei spat, drifting to the table and setting down her wine. She'd heard whispers of his cruelty, of debaucheries beyond counting and naming, and his words to her had made his low regard of women clear.

_Cut the bastard whelp's throat. Let the crows feast. I will give you something better to sit upon than a cold throne._

"And yet you would welcome him into your bed like a common whore?" Jon snapped.

The crack of Cersei's hand against her husband's cheek was sharp and sudden. He stumbled back in a startled daze. Dropped into one of the chairs at the table, his fingers rubbing at the red mark, gaze unmoored and shining.

"I would take him as my consort, Snow, just as I took you," Cersei seethed, her palm stinging.

She sat the Iron Throne. Ruled the Seven Kingdoms as queen. Yet she was as much a prisoner of her sex as ever. Qyburn's eyes lingered too long. He chattered of the wonders a man's strong hand could do for her fickle humours. Her Small Council spoke of the need for an heir – for a _son_ – as much as they did the need for allies. And Jon Snow, the bastard who'd been named king over his trueborn sister, he was just another man, thinking he knew best.

Jon let his hand fall into his lap. He tipped wet eyes up at her. "You are condemning our children to death."

"Greyjoy shall be Salt King by my grace. He shall repel his niece with my aid. He will not dare make an enemy of me."

"You trust a madman's sense?" Jon challenged. His gaze was hard, now, turned from water to ice. He drew back in the chair, squaring his shoulders, somehow making his youth fall away, his height seem greater than she knew he stood. "I know what they call you, Lannister, but you are _not_ mad. A madwoman wouldn't tremble in my arms at night at the memory of the children she's lost."

A soft snort of a laugh burst out of Cersei. She reached for the glass on the table. Downed another swig of wine.

"Do you remember the vows I made when we were wed?" Jon pressed, his dark eyes holding hers.

"You had many pretty promises," Cersei said in an acid tone. "Eternal faithfulness. Honouring me as woman and wife. But you were clever, weren't you? You never named me your rightful queen. You did not pledge your fealty."

"Nor will I," Jon replied without missing a beat.

"Then what could you possibly offer me, Snow, but a bastard's empty words?"

"I vowed to protect any children born to us. Those words weren't wind. I will give my life for them."

"Of course you will," sneered Cersei. "You shall die fighting an army of corpses. Minstrels will sing of your valour."

"War is coming, aye," Jon said. "I want my children to have a future. To give them a _chance_."

Reaching out her free hand, Cersei cupped Jon's jaw, stroked her thumb through the downy bristles of his beard. Tightness seized her chest. He was a truly lovely creature. But prettiness had never stayed her hand before.

"Your end shall be swift, Snow," Cersei told him, low and even. "I will grant you that one small kindness."

Jon drew a shallow, skittering breath. His throat worked as he swallowed. He seemed to silently measure his words. "Daenerys Targaryen has landed in Dorne," he said at last. "Soon she will come to claim the Iron Throne."

"I assure you that I have been apprised of these details," Cersei said.

"Eddard Stark wasn't my father. Not by blood." There was pain in Jon's eyes as he spoke. Pain deeper than despair. "I learned two days before you summoned me south. My mother was Lyanna Stark. I am...Targaryen by birth."

 _Rhaegar's son_. Cersei's grasp on the glass of wine tightened. The now-familiar face of her husband melted away. She saw only doleful eyes. Pouting lips. Stray curls spilling across a broad forehead. A ghost clothed in a wolf's skin. "An interesting fiction, Snow," she forced herself to say, truth settling like a stone in her stomach.

"Daenerys must know by now. Sansa will have gotten a message to her. If you kill me, I will be avenged. You'll burn. The twins... You haven't announced you're with child. Please. Don't wed Greyjoy. Surrender when she comes."

"Lannisters do not surrender," Cersei stated tightly.

Jon heaved in a hitching sob. Tears shivered in the corners of his eyes. His pulse drummed wildly under her fingers. The Stark pride had forsaken him. He had laid himself bare. But there was no sweetness in his ruin this time.

" _Please_ ," he implored. "I know you love our children. I know that love is greater than all your hate."

Cersei thought of the weight of a babe in her arms. The simple joy of that first tiny, bubbling laugh. How quickly the sharp, heady thrill of Greyjoy throwing down Ellaria Sand and Oberyn Martell's bastard daughters before her throne in offering had faded into the hollow, rote satisfaction of bones snapping one by one in Ser Gregor's hands.

She thought of summer sun slanting into a red stone courtyard and grey eyes looking at her with a blend of pity and disgust. _When the King returns from his hunt, I'll tell him the truth. You must be gone by then. You and your children. I will not have their blood on my hands._

"Enough!" she said, snatching her hand away. She slammed her glass down hard. Wine sloshed onto the table. Whirling around, she strode to the doors of the chamber in a swish of skirts, threw them open with an angry flourish. "Take my husband to the Black Cells," she instructed the two Queensguard standing watch in the corridor.

Jon didn't resist when her men pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of the chamber.

Cersei picked up her glass. Carried it to the sideboard. Hand shaking, she lifted the pitcher, poured out more wine. She downed a large gulp, bracing her other hand on the sideboard's edge, her stone ring clacking against it.

 _He is Rhaegar's son_ , Cersei thought, pressing her eyes closed.

An image of long fingers dancing across the strings of a silver harp rose out of the blackness. He'd had so many sweet songs, that silver prince, and sung them as if he truly believed them, but the world held no such sweetness. He'd fallen on the Trident, gentle, foolish heart crushed by the blow of Robert Baratheon's warhammer.

Cersei opened her eyes. Let her gaze drop. Uncurled a hand over her belly. The twins were stirring fitfully within her. Those little feet would patter, the little elbows poke and twist, until at last they left the shelter of her womb.

A mother's love, however fleeting it may be, was the only mercy the world would ever give.


End file.
